The Last Goodbye by Reed Arvin

write computer code, it has magical powers.
    None of which connected him with Dilaudid Avenue and the Perry Homes projects. I seriously didn’t want to go down there. For one thing, I didn’t have any contacts, and just asking the wrong person the wrong question can dry up an entire segment of society. Word spreads through that kind of place so fast if you blink you miss it. But for now, at least, there was an alternative, and it made sense on a lot of levels to pursue it.
    Townsend’s computer was set up on a small table in my office. Inside it, I assumed, were a great many answers to my questions. And it occurred to me that the more information I found there, the more unlikely it was that he had killed himself. If he had known in advance the time of his death, he certainly would have deleted anything too horrifying. Even people on death row don’t like the idea of being humiliated after the fact.
    I picked up the phone and called Michael Harrod. An answering machine answered. Harrod’s voice said, “Make it good, you’re slowing down my data transfer.” Then there was a beep.
    â€œMichael?” I said. “Listen, that favor I needed, it’s time to collect.” Silence. “I know you’re in there, Michael. You never go anywhere when you’re not out ripping off Radio Shack.” More silence. “Nightmare?”
    Harrod picked up. “Yeah,” he said. “What up?”
    â€œRemember that little job I had for you?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWell, it would probably go a lot better if you were here.”
    â€œYeah, probably.”
    â€œLet me refresh your memory. I saved you from being the pool boy at the Fulton County Country Club. It’s time to pay up.”
    More silence. After a long pause, Nightmare said, “Whose computer is this, anyway?”
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    â€œYeah, because I don’t want it to suck.”
    â€œA former client of mine. You wouldn’t know him.”
    â€œWhat’s his name?”
    â€œHis name is Doug Townsend.”
    Dead silence, at least fifteen seconds. Then, “I can see where you’re calling from,” followed by a dial tone.

    I didn’t have a chance to figure out what Nightmare’s response meant. Before I could put the phone down, I heard Blu rummaging around on the other side of the open door. I hung up the phone and walked in, curious; she was pulling her stuff together, like she was preparing to leave. I looked down at my watch; there was nearly an hour left before closing. For all her faults, she was usually prompt, both coming and going. I walked in, flopping down in one of the waiting room chairs. I watched her push a magazine into her purse, thinking again about how different our lives were. What, I wondered, would it be like to possess such a limited set of assets, but to have those few in such spectacular abundance? What would it be like to be a woman like her, walk into a bar, and have every straight guy in the place check his pulse? And what, I especially wondered, would it be like to know that you had a handful of chances—moments of destiny—when your assets intersected with one of the small number of men with the legitimate power to fulfill all your dreams? Would it matter, strictly speaking, that the guy was an asshole of epic proportions? Blu raised her face to mine, giving me a smile. “Off early today, if that’s not a problem,” she cooed. Even her voice was like compressed sex.
    â€œIt’s not actually closing time,” I said. “Strictly speaking.”
    She smiled. “You don’t mind, do you, Jack? The phone hasn’t rung in an hour.” That, I had to admit, was true. “Anyway, I have a date.” She pushed a foot into a navy blue, strapped pump. I hadn’t noticed she had been barefoot.
    â€œYou seeing that guy Stephens?”
    Her smile deepened. Time stood still, as I waited for the